A Play of Shadow (5 page)

The truth, if ever Bannan had seen it in a face. Silently, he held out his hand for the sword, belting the thing to hang at his hip. A soldier’s weapon, as if there was doubt, free of gilt or tassel. The weight of it, the potential, changed his stance and darkened his mood. “I’ll not draw it,” he said, wondering who he promised.

“Ancestors Witness, now you look the part, truthseer, I doubt there’ll be need. I’d not cross you.” Spoken lightly, but there was something in the old soldier’s eyes when Bannan met them that said otherwise.

This wasn’t the leave-taking he’d planned, if he’d planned anything beyond being grateful if Jenn Nalynn didn’t object to his leaving in the first place. He glanced her way. She’d lost her smile, but managed a resolute nod. “We’ll be fine,” she said, to his unasked question.

“Ready, Bannan?” Davi’s deep voice brought up his team’s heads, and Alyssa laughed as a ribbon pulled from her hand. He’d the reins of the other riding horses in one big hand. Marrowdell would be left with Wainn’s old pony and a pair of weanlings.

Before the treaty calmed the border with Ansnor, the horses alone would have been a prize worth the risk of a sword. In Vorkoun, anyway. Perhaps Weken. Endshere and settlements farther north seemed oblivious to both the war and its end. Bannan supposed that was the way of the world.

“Ready when you are. We should get moving,” he added without looking at Sennic.

Davi chuckled. “Mother’s been saying that since breakfast.” He handed the reins to Jenn and Alyssa. “We’ll be off soon. C’mon, lads.” This with a cluck of his tongue as he guided the big draft horses with a hand on each massive neck. “Mother’s waiting.”

Two pairs of ears flicked back, then the horses stepped promptly into their traces.

The Emms appeared, with Hettie and Tadd, and the area under the apple trees quickly became a bustle of activity as bundles and gear were sorted out. Bannan lost Jenn for a moment, then spotted her in earnest discussion with her sister and Hettie. Lorra and Frann arrived, faces flushed with obvious pleasure. More and more inhabitants of Marrowdell joined the fray, voices rising with excitement. The leave-taking was an event, after all.

A moth landed on his shoulder. Bannan squinted at it. “Are you coming?”

It waved an absent feathery plume, preoccupied with writing on its tiny curl of parchment. The moths were record keepers. News bringers, at times. And every so often, astonishingly—Bannan looked up at the sweeping pale stone of the Bone Hills—the moths were part of the immense being who held Marrowdell and the Verge together. Or spoke with its voice. A meaningless distinction, according to the dragon, who discouraged questions about the sei.

Or had no answers to give. Bannan grinned. “Keep track of things while I’m away,” he requested, quite sure the moth would do so anyway.

To his surprise, it tucked away its parchment, moths having wee satchels for that purpose, and tiptoed along his shoulder to his neck. He held very still, despite the tickle, but couldn’t help but start when it scratched busily on his skin. Done, it fluttered away, and he could have sworn it laughed.

“It wrote on you.” Wainn Uhthoff had a gift for being unnoticed until he chose to be. He peered with interest at the truthseer’s neck.

“What?” Bannan lifted his chin to make that inspection easier.

“I can’t read,” the youngest Uhthoff reminded him comfortably. “I remember the words.”

Of all the books in Marrowdell, Bannan knew, even the ones Wainn’s uncle, Kydd, had shredded into a lining for his beehives years ago. Books of magic, from Rhoth and beyond. “I should have shown you
Talnern’s Last Quest
,” he said ruefully, “before the dragon got his claws on it.” His favorite novel had been thoroughly shredded as well; though returned, somehow neatly sewn back into the shape of a book, the words inside remained a scrambled mess.

Admittedly an entertaining mess. Neither he nor Jenn could read more than a line aloud to one another before bursting into giggles.

Wainn hadn’t moved. “These words belong to Marrowdell.” An uncharacteristic frown creased his forehead. “Wen said, if you leave, you won’t.”

If there was anyone closer to the Verge and its wild magic than a turn-born, it was Wen Treff, who spoke to toads and heard the secrets within a heart. Bannan felt the weight of the sword again, but it wasn’t that. Marrowdell objected to his leaving. Or warned him against it.

Why? A chill ran down his spine. To counter it, he clapped Wainn heartily on the shoulder. “Then I’d best come back, hadn’t I?”

The younger man didn’t smile. “Yes.” He turned and left without another word.

“What was that about?” Jenn asked, giving Wainn’s back a surprised look as she stepped close.

Bannan wrapped his arm around her, holding her slender warmth to the side without the sword, and pressed his face into her hair. “Hearts of my Ancestors,” he prayed silently, then stopped, terrified to have come that close to doubt. “I belong here,” he said instead, aloud. “I belong here and with you, Dearest Heart.”

“You’re doing the right thing.” Her arms, strong and comforting, wrapped around his waist. “The others are glad you’ll be with them. As am I.” A squeeze, then she slipped away. “After all,” her smile found his heart, “I’ll be here to welcome you home.”

Home, Bannan thought, almost dizzy with relief. That was the truth. Marrowdell was his home now and, moths and warnings withstanding, nothing would change that.

He wouldn’t let it.

A sliver of paper, touched by ink and fingertip . . . a drop of sleep, under the tongue . . .

And the dream unfolds . . .

Mean, the room, full of dust and cobwebs, its walls of rough stone and wood black with rot. There’s a shuttered window, curtained by a cloak.

A pair of lamps light a table spread with documents. A hand shifts them about, points to one.

Dim figures gather around. Heads shake. A fist comes down. Disagreement.

A finger pushes the document forward. Insistence.

The dream falters . . . rebuilds . . .

It rains silver.

And eyes glimmer from the dark.

She’d let him leave. There’d been a heartbeat, an instant, when simply asking would have kept him here, with her. But duty must, when duty calls, as Aunt Sybb would say, and she’d known he should and must go.

That didn’t make it any easier.

So, having watched the precious caravan pass out of sight beyond the first bend of the road from Marrowdell, before the last echoes of hoofbeats and fare-thee-well’s faded from the crags, Jenn Nalynn fled before she could change her mind.

And stop them all.

She ran through the village and climbed the gate into the commons, past Wainn’s old pony, calling unhappily after his pasture mates, and the cows, half asleep as they chewed their cud in the sun. The far gate was open and the great sows, Satin and Filigree, didn’t look up as she passed, too busy rooting through litter for the last of the acorns. They were as good as a gate, being unwilling to share their treasure with anything else four-footed; their boar, Himself, being the exception, but he dozed in the Treffs’ warm barn with this year’s weanlings.

The riverside oak rattled its brown withered leaves as Jenn moved through its shade, being an opinionated tree. She didn’t pause. The water of the ford was shin-deep and bitterly cold, ice where it stilled among the brown reed stalks, but she didn’t gasp or slow. Nor was she at all surprised when the path to Bannan’s little farm came faster than it should, because Marrowdell knew where she wanted to be.

Night’s Edge.

And with whom.

In the air, he was death and danger and all things perilous. A dragon, once lord. Almost, not quite, lord again.

Silly younglings.

Wisp settled to ground, leaving such pretensions in the chill air. He’d survived his penance. He’d no interest in earning another. Let a new fool rouse dragonblood and stir the cliff holds to battle.

His jaws gaped in a mirthless grin. Best way to trim the fat.

The ground was still frozen. He’d picked a sun-touched spot in the meadow, hoping for warmth, but was too early or too late. Late, was his gloomy thought. Marrowdell’s sun waned already. There’d be snow soon. He shivered and snarled.

Warmth, sudden and welcome. Efflet, winged and clawed and foolishly fond of snow, had left their hedge to cuddle against his withered side. Lifting his head, Wisp hurriedly looked around for any sign of the old kruar. Finding none, he accepted the small beings’ gift with a grateful sigh. Not that they’d be enough to keep him warm in winter.

Be warm he must. In the cold, dragonblood would first slow, then freeze solid like the revolting water in the river. Presumably also to thaw in spring, dragons being hard to kill, but none alive could claim to know for certain and Wisp wasn’t about to take that chance.

Or leave the girl unprotected.

He’d find a way. Shelter he had, though of crystal and wood. Until now, he’d visited the girl but briefly in winter, crossing back to the Verge as soon as possible to bask in its heat.

No longer. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, disturbing the efflet. The outside world had found Marrowdell once. It could again. If he had to dig a hole under the truthseer’s kitchen to stay close, live as he had among the turn-born, he would.

A moth shaped like a snowflake drifted near his face. ~I have news, elder brother. News!~

Wisp snapped before remembering the tiny creature could be more than it seemed. ~What news?~ he grumbled, annoyed to be relieved he’d missed. The moths, when not possessed, were prone to think anything worth recording.

~They are leaving, elder brother. Today!~

The dragon settled himself, rather smug. ~This is not news to me.~ The fair at Endshere was the final exchange with the world beyond Marrowdell before winter. He would feel better once it was done, especially as the girl had reminded him there would be letters.

Wisp sincerely hoped none were for him.

The moth managed to look disappointed. ~My apologies, elder brother. I should have realized he wouldn’t leave without your permission.~

~Who?~

~But you already know—~

The dragon parted his jaws meaningfully. ~WHO?!~

The moth landed at a safe distance, fussing with its plumes. ~The smith and the potter and the weaver and the milkmaid and the miller’s apprentice and the woodworker and the writer and the tiny one and the truthseer.~

Bannan was leaving Marrowdell?

More importantly, his warm and food-filled home?

~Oh, that,~ Wisp replied airily. ~I knew that.~

Fine news, indeed.

Then, the best news of all. The moth startled up and away; the efflet deserted at the same time, leaving his side once more exposed to the cold. They sensed what he did and dared not stay.

A turn-born approached.

Not just any turn-born. Jenn Nalynn. Wisp sent a little breeze throughout the meadow to gather soft dry grasses, stealing some from the nest of a sleepy rabbit who thumped fearlessly at him, being one of hers.

As, he thought with undragonish pleasure, was he.

T
HE MEADOW KNOWN
as Night’s Edge nestled between Bannan’s farm, two of the Bone Hills, and the Tinkers Road, isolated from all but a lovely view of Marrowdell by thick hedges and the old trees—who weren’t trees, Jenn reminded herself, but the roots of neyet growing through from the Verge. That the valley was filled with such mysterious beings was still a delight.

That her meadow remained home to her favorite, her best friend, was something more than that. Had Wisp returned to his old life, hers would have been the poorer.

Though he could still be the most annoying, difficult, and stubborn . . . “I just want to talk to her.”

A warm breeze tickled her ear. “Why?” It tossed her bangs. “You’re talking to me, Dearest Heart. Am I not enough? Why am I not enough?”

Was that a hint of worry? “Nothing’s wrong,” Jenn assured him, rubbing her forehead. “I’ve some questions for Mistress Sand, that’s all.”

“Questions you can’t ask me? You can ask me anything.”

Oh, definitely worry—and a smidge of pique. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her friend was jealous. “Fine. I’ll ask you.” He’d made her a seat of dry grass, which was considerate, though the clumps of fur meant he hadn’t been as thoughtful of the rabbit, but she was too restless to sit. “Mistress Sand said the Verge touches more than Marrowdell—” this being a marvelous revelation she and Bannan had discussed many times. “All I want to know is if it touches—well, if it goes to—”

“Endshere.” Silver glinted in the air before her, and she felt a draft most likely from a wing. Wisp showed himself no more than ever, but Jenn had seen him both as a man, which had been her doing, and as he truly was. Claws like ancient bone, longer than her fingers, curved and serrated. A wiry beard below a long jaw of deadly fangs. Breath like steam; skin like finely woven silver chain. Eyes of deep, dark violet. One side, crippled, the other whole, but both wings entire and strong, a gift she’d oh-so-gladly given. “It does not, Dearest Heart,” he informed her. “If it did, what would you do?”

She hadn’t thought that far, to be honest. Jenn plopped herself down on the grassy seat with a sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Be sure they’re safe. Watch over them.”

“See the fair for yourself.”

“I—” Swallowing her protest, Jenn lowered her gaze to her hands and searched her own heart. Was she still so shallow? No. “I’m uneasy,” she said at last, sure of that much. “Whether it’s because I can’t help them, or because I shouldn’t even if I could. Being turn-born’s—” What was it? “—confusing,” she finished, sure of that, too. “Wisp, I don’t know my limits. I don’t know how to find them without doing something I shouldn’t.” Oh, there was an understatement. “I need Mistress Sand.” She patted the ground. “Here.”

“The terst turn-born will not cross until Marrowdell warms again. Being sensible.” Followed by a
snapsnapsnap
that sounded like chattering teeth.

House toads felt the cold. They moved indoors, taking up residence under heatstoves and in front of fireplaces.

Her poor dragon. Despite today’s sunshine, the air had a nip to it that would soon be a freezing bite. Which she mustn’t alter, Jenn reminded herself sternly. Instead, she undid her heavy cloak—the lined one being saved for real winter—and held it out awkwardly. “If you’re cold—” she began, then shook her head and put the cloak aside. “Wisp. Come close. I’m warm enough for the two of us.”

Grass bent and crackled. She let him decide if and how, reminded of how it was easier to catch a wayward piglet if one sat quietly and let it come. With a piece of apple, piglets not being foolish, but warmth was something she most certainly could see wanting just as much.

Something pressed against her arm, then around her back, cool and hard as stone. More laid along her thigh, then a long something that wasn’t heavy but had odd sharp bits landed on her lap. Encased in dragon, Jenn spread her cloak over them both as best she could. “There. Isn’t that better?” Though it was; she could feel for herself. What had been cool and hard warmed more quickly than stone could, and she would, in fact, shortly be too warm for the cloak herself and possibly break into a sweat.

Which was fine. After all these years, she finally knew who and what her little breeze was. He could be harmed—hadn’t she done it? He could be lost—oh, how she’d feared it. Through it all, Wisp remained the bravest, truest friend there could be.

And deserved every kindness she could manage.

When the breeze found her ear again, it was decidedly formal, as if the dragon was slightly embarrassed to be, as Peggs would put it, snuggling. “If you truly wish to speak with the turn-born, Dearest Heart, I could convey your invitation. By word, not letter.”

Wisp, as Wyll, had learned all about invitations. As for the letter? “I understand,” Jenn said. Only turn-born could cross between worlds with more than themselves. What Wisp proposed was a meeting, but . . . “You said Mistress Sand wouldn’t cross into—oh.”

“The Verge is always warm,” the breeze informed her, implying something wrong with a world unable to make the same claim. “It would be a show of strength to demand to meet at your crossing.”

“My crossing?” Jenn echoed faintly. Did he mean the entrance to the Verge at the top of the Spine, where she’d crossed before? Where she’d faced—no, she thought firmly. He couldn’t mean that. It was much too close to the mad sei for even her comfort.

Not to mention some unfortunate rabbits.

The breeze found her other ear. “The terst turn-born would refuse, of course. They are not so brave as you, Dearest Heart.”

She felt anything but brave.

The dragon might have been talking to himself. “A meeting at their crossing would put you too close to their home. No, it should be on neutral ground. Where I cross. That will do. You don’t mind heights, do you?”

Worry about heights, when they were talking about crossing from one world to the next, where she would be away from all that kept her Jenn Nalynn and flesh?

Her heart filled with longing to do just that. And wasn’t now, with Bannan away, the perfect time to try?

Which now wasn’t. “Ancestors Forgetful and Foolish. Wisp, it’s laundry day. I promised Peggs.” A struggle once the air was so cold, and not something to avoid simply to go adventuring. “I can’t abandon her.” Not twice in a row.

What she’d unconsciously leaned against pulled away. As she caught her balance, the breeze chuckled in her ear. “Dearest Heart, do your duty while I do mine. There’s no knowing when I’ll find the turn-born to give your invitation. This day. The next. They travel the Verge, though never as quickly as I. I’ll bring word.”

Just like that, she was alone in the meadow. A disgruntled rabbit began stuffing grass in its mouth, the dried ends wagging up and down until it seemed to have grown a very odd and very large mustache. Jenn moved out of its way. “I’ve done it now,” she told it, relieved, if she were honest. The die was cast. She was committed to crossing into the Verge, to meet with its powerful turn-born.

Where the warmth of her reception could depend on a dragon’s manners. Or lack.

“Oh, dear.”

The steady beat of unshod hooves on packed earth was their drum, the creak of leather and occasional snort their sole heralds. Bannan was reassured by the care taken by the villagers beyond Marrowdell’s walls. They might have been ghosts moving down the mist-skirted Northward Road. Deer barely looked up as they passed; a young fox startled when they came around a bend.

Davi rode Battle, the extra burden nothing to the massive horse. His mother and Frann sat atop the cart load, a cozy nest having been made for them among the bundles and sacks; by midmorning, both were sound asleep.

Hettie and Tadd rode behind the wagon, holding hands when they thought no one was looking. They’d argued before setting out, she being large with child and he, to Bannan’s mind, understandably anxious. But the women hadn’t worried, most particularly her mother, who was the village healer, so how could the men?

Zehr walked more than he rode, admitting he hadn’t spent much time ahorse the last few years, but cheerful despite his sore backside. He held the reins of his wife’s mount as well, Gallie busy taking notes on the surrounding plant life, though it looked like all the rest to Bannan’s eyes. Tiny Loee, preoccupied with her thumb, dozed in a sling at her mother’s breast.

As for Bannan? After Scourge, Perrkin was a revelation: an honest, easy-paced horse who not only knew where they were going but wished nothing more than to please his rider along the way. He could get used to this, the truthseer decided, patting the aged gelding’s sturdy neck.

Though truth was, after they stopped for lunch, he was in some danger of joining Frann, Lorra, and the baby, nodding off, then waking with a guilty start. Scourge wouldn’t have put up with it, being expert at a jolting step or two if Bannan dared relax. Teeth through one’s tongue was an unpleasant and highly effective alarm on patrol.

Which he was, so the truthseer fought his grogginess. Going ahead a bend or two and riding back helped, but it wasn’t fair to Perrkin to ask him to travel the road more than the others. Instead, Bannan followed Zehr’s example and dismounted to walk every so often, the challenge of keeping up with the team’s long strides enough to keep his eyes open.

Not that eyes seemed much use. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Scourge’s senses. Once the morning mist burned away, the sun dazzled. Now, afternoon’s first shadows stretched like fingers from under the pines, clawing at the road’s edge and hiding what they chose. His eyes played tricks, he thought, squinting.

Had he seen something?

Another fox, more likely than not.

The entire north, as much of it as he’d seen, consisted of steep-walled crags split at random by narrow, winding gorges. The road, like the tumbling water that sprang from cracks and seams, took the easiest path, winding anywhere the land could support it, ever-so-grudgingly sloping down to Lower Rhoth and civilization.

Toward Lila and home. He couldn’t wait.

Bannan frowned.

The Westietas estate had never been home; he’d left the Larmensu holding a boy barely grown. Home lay behind him, in a land of—of—roses and sunsets that were—what were they?—where moths who took notes—which, his frown deepened, moths couldn’t do.

Yes, he’d a farm of his own and soon, hopefully, piglets, but winter, he feared, would be long and lonely. If only he’d found someone in Marrowdell, as Lila had hoped.

Suddenly, his neck burned—or did it itch?

Bannan lifted his fingers to the spot and felt raised letters, hot as fire. As shockingly, at the touch, his memory cleared. “Jenn!” he cried, aloud and urgently, feeling the truth of it—of her—snap back into place.

He trembled, unable to credit he’d forgotten her, however briefly.

“‘Jenn?’” Davi glanced down at him, bushy eyebrows raised. “Who’s that?”

He meant it. The truth in the other man’s face was like a knife in Bannan’s heart. “Someone dear to me,” he managed. Someone dear to all of them, before they’d left Marrowdell.

What was happening?

“Maybe you’ll have a letter waiting,” the villager said comfortingly.

“I hope so.” The truthseer forced a smile, a smile he lost as he mounted Perrkin and sent him trotting ahead of their little group.

Ordinary sunlight crisscrossed the road, fallen leaves crunched rather than giggled, and what was wrong with him, that he’d any trouble at all remembering the love of his life? She’d kissed him this very morning. Held him tight then sent him on his way with one of her wondrous smiles.

He’d forgotten Marrowdell as well, at least everything strange and remarkable about the place.

Heart’s Blood. Bannan swallowed. One and the same, weren’t they, for wasn’t Jenn Nalynn now turn-born and magic?

Wen had warned him. Leave and no longer belong.

Ancestors Dreadful and Dire, he hadn’t thought it the truth.

Bannan twisted in the saddle. The others seemed unchanged and unworried. Because they couldn’t see the Marrowdell he did? Or was it because they’d lived there most of their lives, taking so much for granted they didn’t notice its absence?